Page 3 of The Governess and the Rogue

It was because she’d been tempted—sorely, recklessly tempted—to confide in him.

Which would have been a mistake indeed.

Bea had learned her lesson on that score. To be sure, it was the very reason she was in this predicament. Dismissed from one post after another, for being too bold, too opinionated, too bloody difficult, until the only family left to whom she could apply for work were the Dimsdales.

Unpleasant as her new position was, Bea couldn’t afford to risk it. Certainly not by unburdening herself to an impertinent stranger she’d only met three minutes ago.

No matter that he’d seemed sympathetic. Or that his eyes had been kind.

No.

If she was going to make it through this ordeal, she must hold her tongue, keep her own counsel, and, above all, refrain from rocking the boat.

* * *

Jack Beresford watched the prim little governess march off in the direction of the ship’s single and double-berth cabins. She rather resembled a sparrow who’d had its feathers ruffled. She was that plain of feature, that slim and small, with severely styled brown hair and an unusually pale face.

Her drab dresses didn’t help to dispel the illusion. Every time Jack had spied her on the deck she’d been clad in ill-fitting coarse brown cloth or dreary gray wool. Even so, she’d commanded his attention. There was starch in Miss Layton’s spine and a vaguely stubborn tilt to her chin. It hinted at a formidable strength of will.

And Jack admired strong-willed women.

He wondered who she was underneath that starch, and what it was that made her look out at the stars with such melancholy attention.

“Sad creature,” Maberly remarked, emerging from the shadows.

Jack flexed his fingers around the handle of his cane. They were cramped from all the letters he’d been writing. A frightful nuisance. One would think he’d have developed more stamina for the task. It had been his primary occupation since departing Egypt.

“Aren’t we all?” he replied distractedly.

“Some sadder than others.” Maberly came toward the rail. Not much more advanced than Jack’s own four and thirty years, the stocky batman managed to look far older. His shock of chestnut hair had gone gray somewhere between Sebastopol and Ahvaz, and the unrelenting desert sun had turned his once youthful complexion to creased leather. “Take that burned gent in the foredeck cabin. Thornhill. Cavalry soldier, he were, rescued from a sepoy prison.”

Jack knew about the fellow. The man had boarded the ship in Alexandria at the same time as Jack and several other wounded soldiers. Many were recovering from injuries suffered during the Indian rebellion, while others—like Jack⁠—were still nursing their wounds after last years’ conflict in Persia.

“None of us has escaped unscathed,” Jack said.

“Leastways, he got a fine horse out of it,” Maberly replied. “He has him stabled on board. A great big chestnut stallion. Hiran, he’s called.”

“Lucky fellow,” Jack said. He’d hoped to return with a horse or two of his own. Perhaps some carpets too, and a few trunks of souvenirs. Instead, he’d barely escaped his last battle with both limbs intact.

If one could call it a battle.

“You might talk with him if you want a chat,” Maberly suggested. “Safer than revealing yourself to the dogsbody servant of some jumped up colonials.”

Jack felt a flash of irritation. “I’ve no desire for a ‘chat,’ as you so quaintly put it,” he said. “And I didn’t reveal myself.”

“Beg pardon. I thought you was meant to be hiding from the ladies.”

Jack narrowed his eyes at his batman. Is this what Maberly thought of him? That he was some spineless coward? “I’m not hiding from anyone.”

“Avoiding, then,” Maberly amended.

Jack didn’t reply. He had been avoiding people, in truth. And the ladies in particular. But it wasn’t Miss Farraday and her marriage-minded mama he was thinking about now, or any of the attractive single ladies or ripe young widows who had pursued him during his time abroad. He was thinking of drab little Miss Layton and the burning red handprint across her cheek.

His temper crackled with unexpected heat.

Someone needed to grab those Dimsdale children by the scruffs and knock their heads together before they did one of their servants permanent harm.

“Miss Farraday and her mother very nearly had you in Cairo,” Maberly reminded him. “If they were to discover you’re on the ship, they’d plague you night and day until they caught you good and proper.”